


Never Mind The Bollocks

by ohohnono (1thetenfootlongscarf2)



Category: Constantine, Hellblazer, Supernatural
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-05-13 05:59:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5697613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1thetenfootlongscarf2/pseuds/ohohnono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The magic of a resurrection is a tricky thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What if John Constantine had been the one to pull Dean Winchester from hell?

Dean pushed through the ground into a riot of color. Everything was too bright. His eyes watered in the low glare of the sun. Everything itched. 

As he slithered onto the ground dirt fell from his hair into his eyes. It felt too real to be hell. The sky was blue, a proper blue, not the cheap intimation in the tricks the demons like to pull. When he was finally free Dean sat and looked at the sky. It looked real enough. Around his grave (his grave what the fuck) trees lay decimated. It looked like a photo he had seen of a meteorite impact. A small scale of the whole thing that killed the dinosaurs. Some force had stripped the trees of their branches. A small cross sat by his right hand. Sam, that sentimental - Dean twisted and a worm fell out of his shirt. Shit. He stripped down and beat the dirt out of his clothes. His belly was intact. No marks from the hounds, not even scars. Dean checked the pockets of his jeans. No charms or hex-bags, not never a finger bone. He swiped in his ear. No blood. Not a zombie. Not a dream.

The sun was up so vampire was out. Not a mark on him. Even the protection sigil was gone and Dean felt a cold kick in the chest. Was he a demon? No copper taste in his mouth. He sniffed his clothes. Just dirt and bitter sweat. No sulfur. He quickly got dressed. What has Sam done?

It took a few minutes to make it to the road. Dirt and a double lane with not a car in sight. His socks were starting to feel stiff. His hands bled sluggish from the palms. That should have been his first hint he wasn't a zombie but his brain was clicking slow like a cooling engine. He walked in one direction. Left. Left because it was sinister, and wasn't he sinister? Back from the dead with no strings attached. There were always stings - stings to make you dance or make you hang or bind you to something. What did Sam do? Dean shook his head. More dirt. If felt like dirt was crammed into every part of him, getting between his joints and making him stiff. Or it might be coming back from the dead. 

He still might be in hell. There hadn't been much to convince him otherwise. Maybe the tricks had gotten better. It was like  _The Matrix_. Sure Neo took the right pill and woke up in that pod of slimy shit, but what was there to convince him that where he was wasn't also a dream? Layers in layers? Dean kicked at a stone. It was real enough. His toe hurt. That was real too. It was a sharp, pulsing pain. It seemed to reflect his heartbeat. That felt real enough too. 

After a while he saw a building. It was low and dirty. In front was a car with good tires and a cracked right passenger window. He stopped and looked at it. The feeling that made him walk left, that make him pause at the station, suddenly burned out like fog in the daylight. Dean felt worried. He hadn't noticed the urge, the pull, until it was gone. Was it there when he was at the grave? Was it what drew him out of the ground? He wasn't sure. He didn't know when it started, just that it had ended. The world was a bit less severe suddenly, the shadows less harsh angles. 

Magic. Fucking magic. 

He knew what a spell felt like. Something had cast him and now here he is, Bumfuck, Nowhere. The door didn't even slam well when he entered the store. Fully stocked and completely empty. Weird shit. Typical. 

He tried to speak but his mouth was too dry. So he grabbed what he needed - water, food - and then he saw the newspaper. If it was the right date (and if it was who picked it up?  who came here to get the news?) he had been gone for months. Jesus.  

He used a bottle to rise out is mouth. It tasted slightly sour, but better then dirt and spit. His gums bled as he gargled. The matte metal sink looked too polished before he spit and now it just looked used.

When he finished he felt the draw again. This time he felt it come on, like water rising. It was at his feet then knees all the way to his head.

"Hello?" There was no reply. Everything was very still. Too still. No breeze. The fan behind the counter stopped spinning. Then half the wall of cigarette packs caught fire. It was an instant inferno and Dean stumbled back, the plastic bag of goods in one hand and .... nothing in the other. He was unarmed. When his hand hit the door the fire stopped.

The wall was blackened with soot. The cancer sticks were a total write-off.

Dean felt the draw again. It tugged harder. There was something in the back room. He started at the door. It was one of those side doors. Employees Only. He left the store.

The car was still out front. He didn’t like the color. It was as yellow as piss and the chrome gleamed meanly. It was a ugly car.

Before he got in he used the pay phone. Sam's number was disconnected. He tried Bobby next.

He throat hurt when he spoke. And the man hung up on him. Dean tried again. The second time was worse.

The engine turned over with no trouble. Dean froze. There was no grinding, no clicking. All good things but they made him nervous.  This whole place made him nervous. It was at odds – empty and pristine, maintained yet abandoned. The car hummed underneath him. The tank was full. The map he grabbed (stole) showed that he was only forty hours from Sioux City if he pushed hard. On the dash the clock read eight thirty. It was going to be a hell of a day.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean sat behind Bobby's desk. The bottles were worrying, but what was more pressing was the fact Bobby hadn't heard from Sam in months. The Arc Mobile people were too obliging about handing over the GPS. 

"Someone told us you would call," said the woman on the other end. Dean could hear the keys clicking down the line. "I can just give it to you over the phone.  263 Adams Road, Pontiac Illinois, 45621. Anything else I can do for you?"

"No, no thanks."

Bobby was standing by the sink. The blinds were drawn and the whole house looked unkempt. Dean picked up a bottle. "Parents' out?" 

Bobby didn't laugh. "Like I said..."

"Yeah, yeah. Coping." Dean set it down. Damn. He wanted a drink. Or a smoke. The craving felt strange. He'd never liked smoking, the ashy smell, the bitter taste of nicotine. He remembered the fire at the gas station. The ugly car. 

"How are you feeling?" Bobby wandered over to the desk. He was pointedly not looking at the bottles. 

"Fine." Dean rubbed at his chest, where the tattoo used to be. He felt too exposed. The ballpoint drawing on his leg wouldn't last for long. Need to get that redone.

"It was four moths ago..." Bobby rubbed his mouth. "You weren't exactly in one piece."

"Well, I look pretty good, don't I?" The bravo fell flat. Dean pulled up a map online. The hotel was small with poor reviews. Not far from where he was buried. What was Sam up to?

Bobby shrugged into his coat. "Best get to Sam." 

Dean swept some bottles into the trashcan as he stood. "Alright."

The drive was quiet. They took Bobby's car. A thin mist set in as they parked. Dean tried not to slam his door. 

"I thought..." he trailed off. Bobby looked aged under the neon lights. Too wrinkled, like a paper folded and folded until it tears. Dean pushed on. "I thought you were going to take care of Sam."

Bobby sighed. "I tried, son. But..." he shrugged. "When Sam gets his head set, there's no stopping him. After you left he got quieter and quieter until one day he up and left. After that... I had nothing."

Dean reached out to touch him but something stopped him. As they drove north the draw had grown stronger. It was hard to ignore now. It sat heavy in Dean's gut like a poor diner meal.  Thick and oily. Foreign.

"Come on." Bobby said. "Let's go talk to Sam."

The front door to the hotel did slam when Dean closed it.

The front desk was cheap imitation wood and the clerk was wain in the poor light. Her hair was greasy. The purple blouse was wrinkled and stained. She smelled like she had a cat problem. Dean couldn't look at her as Bobby quietly asked questions. She just seemed filthy. Tainted with something he couldn't name.

As they mounted the steps Bobby gave him the side-eye. "Why were you avoiding the girl at the desk?"

Dean stared at him in bewilderment. His gut heaved. "She smelled awful Bobby. Like she lived with a million cats and no shower."

Bobby raised his eyebrows. "If you say so."

Room 207 was at the end of the hall. The girl who answered seemed like a bitch. She filled the doorway with her presence. Dean stepped back. Did no one bathe anymore? She smelt like old egg salad and sweat. "Wrong room," he chocked out. Then Sam stepped into the doorway. Dean froze.

Sam's eyes widened. He looked from the girl to Dean and back again. "I... I think..."

The girl shook her head. "It's fine. I'll go." As she passed Dean he jumped back. Christ. She didn't even look at him as she left.  Bobby only had eyes for Sam. Dean followed them in. 

He cut to the chase. "What did it cost?"

Sam laughed. "What, the girl?"

Dean didn't feel like laughing. The room stank. He was getting a headache and the draw in his stomach hurt. "Don't lie Sam. How did you get me out?"

Sam looked at Bobby and shook his head. "I didn't."

"Was it a trade off?" Dean could remember the offers while he was on the rack. One for the other. Those deals were never real, never binding. "Did you sell your soul? Don't lie to me." The closer he got to Sam the worse the smell got. It was like his brother had bathed in it. Dean stopped. "Jesus. What did you do?"

Sam stood. The force of it send Dean scrambling backwards. He was going to be sick. 

"I didn't do anything," Sam's eyes glinted with tears. "I wish I had.  I'm sorry." There were two voices, two tones. There was Sam's, which was remorseful, and another underneath it which was screaming in terror. 

Dean shuddered. It was weird that even though Dean didn't want Sam to sell his soul, it still felt like being abandoned. "It'll all me Sam. Bobby checked. If something hitched a ride -"

"So you feel like yourself?" Bobby, from his perch on the window, looked suspicious. 

Dean thought of a second. His stomach twisted. "I could do with a smoke. And an G and T."

Sam blinked in surprise. "I've got beer." 

Dean suddenly felt sick and disinterested. "Thanks." The bottle was cold and the drink bitter. After half the bottle he could feel a low buzz. Four months under and he lost all tolerance.

Sam toyed with the label of his beer. The silence hung for a moment. "Besides that?"

In the corner Bobby kept watch. The smell was blocked by the stink of beer. "Good," Dean said. "I'm good."

That caused Sam to grin. "Did you see the girl at the front desk? She looks like your type."

Dean felt his face twist in disgust. "What is wrong with you man?"

Bobby stood, set his bottle down too. "Are you talking about Cathleen? Dean's not too interested right now."

"Oh." Now they were back to the silence. Dean finished his beer quickly. It felt cold in his stomach but warmed his head. 

"Yeah, I..." The craving was stronger now. He really needed a smoke. "I'm going to step outside. Get some fresh air."

Sam and Bobby watched him go. 

He took the back exit. No need to run into Cathleen when he was already felling poorly. 

By the exit he bummed a cigarette off a passing pack of drunks. No one had a light, so they had to go though the whole song and dance. Dean's lighter trembled in the dark. They wandered off after the everyone's first was gone and left him with three more.

"Death comes in fours," one of the men said as he passed them over.

"Thanks." Dean replied. The man disappeared into the small crowd. Dean put two in his pocket and lit the third. The harsh smoke lingered in his mouth. A detached part of him hated smoking. Right now the movements soothed him. The stink of smoke cooled the buzz under his skin. He heard Bobby and Sam come through exit behind him.

"You smell like a fireplace, boy." Bobby waved a hand in front of his face. Sam got into the Impala but Bobby stopped Dean from following. Dean fiddled with the cigarette. "I called a psychic I know. She lives a few hours from here. I'm going to be in the lead car, and Sam thinks you're good to drive."

Dean took another drag and flicked the butt away. "I am."

Bobby didn't look convinced. Dean looked over at the Impala. Sam must have waxed it recently. The car seemed to swallow the darkness around it. 

"I'll follow you Bobby." Dean smiled. It felt wooden, like if he clenched his jaw too hard his teeth would break. "Don't worry about me."

Bobby rubbed his hands together. "It's all I do, Dean."

Dean watched him leave then climbed into the drivers seat. It had the stale smell of eggs salad and sweat. 


	3. Chapter 3

Pamela had a wicked grin and a keen eye. Dean liked her, like the look of her and the hint of jasmine that she carried with her. There were hints of her magic scattered around. A wind-chime with light gray wood, small carved stones along the walkway. The neighbors must think she was some kind of new age mystic - homeopathy and gluten free. 

She lifted Bobby from the ground when she hugged him. 

"Are these the boys?" She asked. She looked at the distance between Sam and Dean. "Bit of an argument on the way over." Dean frowned. The whole E.S.P. conversation hadn't gone well. He tried to air out the car by rolling down the windows. Sam hand't smelt it and just bitched about the cold. Dean hated night driving. It make him ache. He only had one cigarette. He smoked it during a bathroom break, sucking the smoke down quickly. He was sure Sam could tell.

"Something like that," Sam said. "I'm Sam, this is Dean."

Dean looked down the road. The house was is quiet suburbia, all white porches and neat Xerox houses. It made him uncomfortable. "It's nice to meet you," he added.

"So polite." She smiled wider. "Out of the frying pan and back in the fire. Come in. Let's see what pulled you out."

As they walked in Bobby asked, "Have you heard anything?"

"The other side's been quiet. Whatever yanked Dean out isn't talking much." 

The sitting room looked like typical caster fare. A low table and solid chairs. 

"I though we could try a séance," she smoothed out a tablecloth with carefully drawn runes. "Crystal gazing without the crystal."

Bobby grabbed some small chunks of marble to weigh down the cloth. Pamela bent down to get some candles. Dean spotted at tattoo at the small of her back. He almost pointed it out to Sam except something make him pause. Fro a moment he thought he saw two tattoos. Jesse Forever in stark black ink, but below that a carefully written paragraph.

Pamela insisted on setting out the candles herself. Dean took a seat to her right, Sam to his right and Bobby across. She was on his left. Sinister. The word kept coming back to him. And with it, the draw. He could feel it at the edges, just a gentle lapping at his feet. It reminded him of going to a pond when he was younger. His mother held his hand and they had rolled their pants up to the knees and the water covered his toes and just lapped, lapped at the tops of his feet. That's what it felt like now. 

"Take each other's hands." She commanded. Bobby and Sam both took a tight grip. Dena could almost taste the apprehension. To cover his nerves Dean looked down. The thick line of yellow shocked him. It seemed to hover though the floor, like a hologram.

"Damn." He said. Pamela looked at him, puzzled. "Must help that the house is on a ley line."

Pamela laughed. "Took a long time to find one and a place I could stand to live at. Now," she looked at him searchingly, "we need something that the monster touched."

Dean shifted. Bobby clutched his hand tighter. "I don't know. There wasn't any mark."

"Hmm." Pamela leaned back. Sam looked nervous. "We can assume it touched you - I'll grab your wrist." Her hand felt hot, too hot. Dean did his best not to react. 

"Close your eyes." 

They all did. Dean didn't like it. He could almost see the hell-fire. Everything smelled stronger - Bobby's whiskey, Pamela's cool jasmine, the ugly stink that clung to Sam like wet leaves. He heard Pamela took a deep breath. Dean opened his eyes. She had her head tipped back. Classic commune with the spirits pose.

"I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle." Her voice seemed to carry. Dean felt it in his bones.

Sam and Booby's eyes were tightly shut. The magic around Dean's feet fled like mice in the light. 

It suddenly all felt overdone. The candles, the lighting, the commands. Pamela kept trying.

"I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle." 

Something rushed though the room. It was the smell of cheap smokes, rain, the electric tang of hot magic. Pamela's face twisted in confusion. "Hello?" Her hand on Dean wrist tightened. He could swear the bones were rubbing together. "I..." Her voice trailed off. "I can't get a name."

Dean saw Sam peak, then close his eyes. Pamela threw back her head. "I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle. I invoke, conjure, and..." 

The radio crackled to life. It was harsh static, and underneath that a wailing gutiar. Bobby gritted his teeth. "Maybe we should stop." He shouted.

"I almost have it," Pamela replied. "Just - shit, get paper." She dropped, let got suddenly, and scrambled for some. The candles flicked out. Sam, the nerd, had a small notebook in his pocket. Pamela kept repeating numbers to herself, like a mantra. 

She scrawled them down then looked oddly dejected. "I think it's a code," she said as she pushed it to Bobby. Sam leaned closer to look over. Dean closed his eyes. He just felt exhausted, his brain over tired. Like he tried to watch a 3D movie without glasses.

Bobby looked at the numbers and rubbed his chin. "I think it might be."

Sam used his phone to type them out. "It's meaningless to me."

Dean felt the draw fall away suddenly. The taste of cigarettes was vile and the beer from last night left his mouth feel fuzzy and dry. Pamela snapped her fingers and pulled out her phone. "I have an idea. Got it from you Grumpy," and she winked at Sam. She punched in the numbers and Dean could hear it ring. 

"Hello?" Pamela's eyes lit up. "Yes, I'm looking for..." Her mouth dropped in surprise. "Yeah. Present. I'll hold." She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "It's a hotel in Ponatic. They were expecting a call from Dean." She fumbled for a moment then put the phone on speaker. The tinny sound out muzak filled the room. 

"I'm going to put you through right now. Room 200." The voice sounded young and bored. The ringing sounded different. Someone knocked the phone from the receiver. The voices were muffled.

One became clearer, a muttered "sorry pet" then clearer, "Hello?" It sounded rough, sleep blurred.

Pamela  cleared her throat. "Hello. Is this the person expecting Dean?"

There was a long pause. "Is this Pamela Barns?" The voice was clearer. The words were clipped. Dean felt like he hard heard the voice before. 

Pamela looked at them. Bobby nodded. Sam leaned back from the phone and crossed his arms. 

"Yes." Pamela said.

"Christ," the word was drawn out, the accent a rough caricature of Bela's. "You woke me up kid. Nothing good when people wake me up. Bloody rude, you fucking..." there was the sound of a door slamming. "Shite."

"Is everything okay?" Pamela suddenly sounded like a hostage negotiator. "Do you need any help?"

"What? No." The was more sounds of movement. "Last night just left in a hurry. Aren't you psychic? Couldn't you have sensed I was in a fix 'afore you tried to play FBI?"

"I'm sorry about that. I'm calling on behalf of..." Pamela looked at Dean. "A friend. He's been looking for you."

"Really." The rustling stopped. "Is Chas there? Don't mess me about." 

Pamela filched. Dean looked at Bobby and Sam. That was awkward. "No. Someone else." Pamela looked down. Dean took a peek. He couldn't see the ley line anymore. He didn't know if that was good or bad.

"How about you come over? I'm at 16 Walter Street, just outside of downtown."

"Sure, I can swing around," said the voice, then hung up.

Pamela slowly closed the phone. 

"Shit." Sam said. "Was that a demon?"

"Sounded like a person," Bobby grumbled. 

"They all do," Sam argued, "that's the point."

"Well, my house is one of the best protected in the state. No demon is getting in here." Pamela collected the candles and pulled the tablecloth free. "He'll be here soon enough."

Dean stood for a moment then sat back down. He didn't feel well. The taste of nicotine was sticking to his teeth.

"I need to go to the bathroom," he gasped and fled the room. He knew that voice. But from were? It was gnawing at the back of his mind like a cancer. When he locked the bathroom door he sank to the ground. The room was painted a light blue. A fake lily of a valley in a vase was perched on the tank. It slightly dusty. When the draw left so did the apathy and disinterest and now he was drowning in emotion. He tilted his head back and looked at a ceiling. There was some water damage in the right corner. It looked like a screaming mouth. 

 

Hell. That's where he had heard it. 


	4. Chapter 4

Dean was hiding in the bathroom. Sam didn't blame him. How could he? While he might not be over the shock of his brother coming back from the dead, Sam could empathize a bit. Although he had five missed calls from Ruby. Also, not a surprise. That was going to be difficult to explain. He wasn't sure when their relationship had shifted. It started out as a mutual usage, him to get Dean and her for protection. But getting Dean back had failed so they just kept kicking around together. Being in Pontiac was a mistake. Just a place to rest between one horror and the next. 

Bobby was in the kitchen. Drinking water, according to Pamela, but she could also be lying.

She sat next to Sam in the sitting room. From somewhere she found a metal folding chair. He helped her tape a Solomon's Key under the front hall rug. Now all they could do is wait. 

After thirty minutes Dean came out of the bathroom. He looked better. "I borrowed some mouthwash," he told Pamela. She just smiled tightly at him. 

"Take a set," she offered. Dean did, then looked around the table.

"Bobby's in the kitchen." Sam offered. Pamela took out a deck of tarot cards and shuffled them. Sam watched her. Her rings flashed in the sunlight. Dean kept looking at the floor. Sam sunk a look. There was nothing there. After a few minutes there was the sound of a car pulling up outside, then a door slamming shut. The car pulled off again. Sam watched it pass. A taxi, white with blue lettering. Someone mounted the steps onto the porch. Bobby quietly entered the room. The glass in his hand was empty. 

"There's someone the door." 

"I know," Pamela set the cards down. "I'm trying to get a read on them. It's... difficult. It keeps slipping away."

There came a few loud bangs. 

"Hey!" The voice was irradiated. "I know you're in there luv. Let a man in, I'm suffering out here." 

Pamela hurried to the door. Bobby remained standing. Sam twisted in his seat to get a good look at the new comer. Dean kept looking at the floor. 

"Happy families give me the rash," the man was saying in the front hall. Then he exclaimed, "Ley lines! These are a nice bit of work. Not my usual, but you do with what you have." His voice got louder as they got closer. Dean's eyes flicked to the doorway but he didn't move. 

"The person I wanted you to meet is in here," Pamela was at the doorway now. She looked confused, a bit hesitant. "I'm not sure..." She used her body to block the doorway. "Who are you, exactly?"

Sam craned his neck. All he could see was a pair of scuffed black oxfords and the hem of dress pants. Maybe this guy was some kind of official. 

"Can I smoke? Ta." The man lit a cigarette before Pamela could answer. "I'm usually more polite, but my nerves have been shredded and I've been gasping for a fag since I made it out. I'm John by the way. Lovely to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too John." She took a step back. "Come on in."

The man standing in the doorway was unassuming. Or would be, if he wasn't in Middle America. He stood with a casual slouch and a hand tucked in one pocket. There was a tan coat folded over one arm. His tie hung loose. Sam couldn't tell if his hair was poorly died or just a confusing mix of yellow. Everything was slightly smuggled with ash. Bobby set his glass down on the table hard.

"You're John Constantine." He said. He looked a bit pale, his eyes flicking from Dean to John and back again.

"Cheers," John said. "Don't know you I'm afraid." He looked at Sam. His eyes were a hard blue, his face holding a faint expression of boredom. "Or you." Then he saw Dean and his whole demeanor changed. He staggered forward a bit. "Ah, Christ kid." The look he shot Pamela was accusing. "Didn't tell me Dean was here."

At that Dean looked up. Sam was surprised. Dean seemed unfocused, almost unaware. John sapped his fingers in front of Dean's eyes. It shocked some of the life back into him. Dean looked up. "Who are you?"

John pinched off the end of his cigarette and tucked it back into the pack. He hooked the spare chair with a foot and dragged it over. "You coming down a bit? First time I expect. Never liked acid, but the buzz is the same. Come on." He tilted Dean's head up with a hand. "Look us in the eyes. There we are." Then John waved Pamela over. "Glass of water please. No ice."

Sam sat down as Pamela left. Every time Dean's eyes dropped John would coax them up again. "I'm Sam," he finally offered. John nodded eyes still fixed on Dean.

"Figured that. Dean talks about you a lot. I kept telling him he needs knew hobbies, since you flew the nest."

Bobby dragged his chair around, effectively boxing John in. He looked more alert then Sam had seen him since burying Dean. "And how do you know are resident bundle of joy?"

John glanced away, then urgently tutted when Dean's head begin to nod. "He's coming down harder than I thought. Coffee'll do him some good." Pamela had just returned with the water. She handed it off angry.

"I can microwave some instant stuff."

"Two cups should do it. And black, no sugar." John shook Dean by the shoulders. "Head up solider. No sleeping yet." Pamela waited util John picked up the glass of water. Then she left the room. As John helped Dean drink he talked to Bobby.

"I met Dean in Hell. Bit tricky, getting him out, but might be worth it all in the end." 

Sam felt the hair on his neck stand out. "How?"

"How'd I get into Hell?" John shot him a amused look. "Good intentions, mate. Same as anyone."

"And how'd you get out?" Bobby's voice was a low rumble. 

"I walked. Not that hard. Hell's full of ways in and out. Not as complex as Dante wants everyone to think. Oh, there's a man." The last bit was to Dean, who blinked hard and shook his head. "Welcome to the land of the living, old son."

Dean awkwardly shoved John's hands away. "You look older than me."

Pamela laughed as she entered the room. "I'm sure John here is older than anyone here expects." She handed over two mugs of coffee. The liquid looked black and almost filthy. Sam shuddered. John noticed and slid him the glass of water, saying, "Do you worlds of good."

Bobby didn't relax. "So what are you, exactly?" 

"Just a man," John shrugged. "Got into the dark things when I was younger. Was always called a bad influence."


	5. Chapter 5

It was Bobby who suggested that they head back to his house. Pamela begging off. She had work. Commitments. Dean wasn't fit to drive to Sam coaxed him into the Impala's back seat. John watched from the porch. He was smoking again. 

Pamela brought out some bottled water. 

"The glass of water was holy," she said. Sam juggled the bottles into the passenger footwell. "And the mug had sliver in the glaze. He's human. I can promise you that."

"Thanks Pamela." Sam hugged her quickly. In the car Dean pressed his head to the window. 

"You watch out for him." She covertly dropped a charm on to the passenger seat. "John has a nasty habit of getting people killed, Bobby told me."

The whole thing felt strange. Sam felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He checked it again. Ruby. He had to reply. One-handed he typed out _call you later_ and turned it off. On the porch Bobby was talking to John. The older man kept his distance, one hand in his coat pocket. There was a knife in there, Sam was sure.

He was surprised when John followed Bobby off the porch. 

"He's coming with us." Was all the man said. Sam watched Bobby unlock his car and get in. John just shrugged as he passed and climbed into the Impala's passenger seat. Pamela knocked on the roof of the car. 

"If you need help.."

"Call you?" Sam suggested.

"No." Pamela shook her head. "I'm out, for a bit. Get in touch with Missouri. Or just ask Bobby. There's bound to be a psychic in Iowa."

When Sam got into the Impala Bobby tapped his breaks then peeled off the curb. He followed. The cookie-cutter house rolled past.  Constantine had a cigarette in his mouth, unlit. 

"If you're not going to smoke, put it away."

John glanced over then tucked the roll behind his ear. After awhile Dean fell asleep. Sam kept watching him in the rear-view mirror. 

"He'll be alright." John said suddenly.

"I don't think Hell makes anyone 'alright'." Sam snapped back.

John did rise to the bait. He kept staring out the window. They were starting to enter farm country. The land grew flat and expansive. "Dean'll be fine," was all he said.

Sam turned on some talk radio. They listened to the fall of humanity all the way back to Iowa. 

It was almost eight hours before Bobby's house came into view. Constantine whistled between his teeth. "That looks charming."

Sam ignored him. Dean was still asleep in the back. He hadn't woken up at all. He barely moved. While he parked John twisted around in his seat. "I'll get him up," he offered, and dumped a bottle of water over Dean's head. 

Dean smacked his head into the front bench as he moved. "Jesus-" He looked up and saw Sam. He blinked a few time. John opened the door nosily. 

"He's real. So are you." He slammed it shut and lit another smoke. The gray cloud bloomed around his head. Dean shook himself and groaned. 

"Sorry about the car," Sam muttered. "I'll clean it. That dude is crazy."

Dean nodded and stumbled out of the car. Sam's knees popped as he moved. As he walked to Bobby's house he noticed Dean wasn't following. Instead he had went around back and was now staring at Constantine. The man offered Dean the pack, but Dean shook his head. John said something and then Dean nodded. Constantine's shoulder sagged. There were a few more words, then they both turned towards the house. Dean paused when he saw Sam staring but Constantine ignore them both and pulled a battered MP3 player from his coat pocket. He shoulder past Sam. The volume was so loud he could almost make out the music.

Dean walked up slowly. "Hey."

Sam swallowed. "Hi."

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, avoided Sam's eyes. "I... I don't know what's happening."

That caused Sam to laugh. "I think there's only one person who does."

They both looked at the door. When Constantine and Bobby moved inside they threw flicking shadows on the windows.

"Do you trust him?" Sam asked. The man had admitted to pulled Dean out of Hell. 

Dean just shrugged then walked to the front door. After he shut it behind him Sam pulled out his phone. It rang twice before Ruby picked up.

"Do you want to explain," she asked, over the roar of traffic, "how bother dearest rose from the dead, and somehow the Laughing Magician is involved?"

"I don't know." Sam admitted. "I'd never ever heard of John Constantine until today."

"You'd better listen closely." Ruby hissed. "That man is filth, and death, and despair. If you want to save the world, Sam, you're going to have to ditch him."

"What about Dean?"

She laughed softly. "Oh, Sam. If you don't get Dean away, he's not going to die. He's going to end up scattered in Dream's space - and that's worse than Hell. Much worse."

The harsh click severed the connection. At the corner of the yard Sam saw a light glimmer. Constantine was smoking again. Dean opened the front door loudly.

"Dinner'll be ready in an hour."

"Alright." When Sam turned back around, Constantine was gone.  


	6. Chapter 6

There is a quiet scream knocking at the back of his teeth and Dean is jerked upright before he chokes on his own tongue.

"You up?" A hand tugs his shoulder, the other pulling at his hair. The odd pain stops the heaving nightmare. Dean swallows the madness down.

John has the stink of death and cigarettes all over him. His still talking and Dean tries to focus. "... to sort this shite out. Nothing personal. Just a bet." The older man grinned. He has manic eyes and a casual thread of paranoia. "Up you get. Some food in you'll do you worlds of good."

The red was still dripping from the edges of Dean's dream. It wasn't real. He wasn't in hell, chained to a rack or staring over the City. The Fallen were the worst. Their faces were too much for Dean to recall. All he could remember was the horrible redness and the crippling awe.

John let an unlit cigarette bob as he spoke. Dean watched it. A spring from the couch dug into his back.


	7. Chapter 7

They work up early, him and John. The older man brewed coffee. Dean tried too cool but the smell of leftover chili made him sick.

On the sagging porth they watched the sun.

"It's unbelievable, isn't it?" John chuckled around the smoke.

"What?" Dean looked overed the shadowed husks of the cars. The ground simmered with oil.

"Getting to see this." His shoulder pressed into Dean's. It was oddly grounding. "The wide world, old son."

Despite himself Dean had to agree. "Are you going to come with us?"

John studies the and if his cigarette. "Might. Depends on how serious it is this time."

The sun is very red. "How serious what is?"

"End of the world."

The mug Dean's holding shatters at his feet. Coffee, hot and gritty, splashes over his boots. "... The fuck?"

John laughs.

* * *

Bobby isn't entertaining the idea. "The and of the world?" His eyes are hard. "It's bigger than just Dean. No offence."

Dean raises his hands. "None taken."

John drags a hand over his face. "I know how it sounds. And you Americans are always keen on slipping by in the nick of time. That's not going to cut it here. We're talking signs, angels, the Whole on a beast with two backs."

Sam looks groggy. "Shakespeare?"

"What?" John takes a drink. It looks like water but he flinches. "The Bible. Revelations."

"Angles aren't real." Dean protested. "I think I would have seen one by now. Fluffy wings, halo, singing on clouds."

John barks out a laugh. "Angles are warrors of God. How do you believe in all the shite - the things beneath and in dark places - without wondering makes the shadows? What makes the light your creatures hide from?"

"So their on our side?" Sam had always been hopeful. 

"That are after their own intrests. Trust me, you don't want them to get involved."

"Why shouldwe? Far as I can see the only thing you did for us was pull Dean from He'll and that was for a --"

John stood. His face was shuttered. "'The only thing' old man? I went into the darkest places to dig that boy out of the filth they left him in.  The only thing I did was steal from the Devil himself. You owe me. Dean here, he owes me everything he is." His hands hit the table like a shot. "That is magic you will never understand." Then his eyes cut to Sam. They glistened darkly. "You smell like shit."

He stormed from the room. They watched him go. Dean tried to covertly take a sniff of Sam. Cotton and dollar store detergent. Nothing that would make John act like he saw a used diaper. Bobby wiped his mouth.

"We can't trust him. I don't know what he did and I don't care. I want to know why and I want him gone. His mind was destroyed long before he came here."

Sam stared hard at the table. Dean tapped a foot on the tile. He could feel the dirt under his socks. When was the last time Bobby cleaned? Was it after he died? Dean wasn't sure. He doubted it. Sam's phone rang. He jerked and pawed at it. Dean saw a flicker of panic cross his brother's face. 

Lying all over again. He was sick of it. Dean left the table and when upstairs. His bed was worn. The mattress was thin. He pressed his face into the cool side of the pillow and tried to control the teeming flush that ran through his body like fire. 

 


End file.
